Hanging On By a Thread
by KatZen
Summary: The biggest challenge a Tracy can face is simply holding on long enough.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: ****The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this. This is for enjoyment purposes only.**

Hanging On By a Thread

_The biggest challenge a Tracy faces is simply holding on long enough to be found._

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

That's it, just keep on breathing.

Feel the sweat pool on your palms. Stretch muscles beyond the point of pain. Experience the burn.

You deserve it.

Grasp onto the edge of the cliff face just that little bit tighter. Cry out in pain as fingers turn white from holding on.

_What possessed you to go rock-climbing without your safety gear?_

Your stomach lurches as you feel your arms slip down a little further. You scowl, impetuous pout appearing on your face. You feel the ligaments in your shoulder snap, _twang, twang, twang_. You find that the rational side of you – the one that only displays itself on rare occasions – rears its ugly head, and at this current juncture in time, it pisses you off.

_Shut up, Brain!_

The rock face begins to crumble from under your hand. Hanging on by fingertips now, hanging on by a thread. You feel the blood rush to your face, feel your skin fry from the sun that's beating down on it. At the worst possible time, your tummy grumbles, low and angry, like a grizzly bear. Your thoughts turn to food. An ice-cream or a Popsicle would be welcome now. You can almost taste the cool liquid trickling down your throat, sliding easily into your stomach.

Your fingers slacken.

You fall downwards until your hands secure yourself again, making makeshift grabs onto jagged edges of protruding rock.

_Don't think about food._

Can't look up, it's too far, terra firma taunting you. Don't want to look down; don't want to stare Death straight in the eyes.

"Alan?"

You want to scream out your location, but you can't. Your throat has shrivelled up and died. You lose your voice at the time you need it the most.

"Alan, it is lunchtime! Where are you?"

_Don't think about food? Fat chance of that happening now. Thanks a lot, big brother of mine._

And finally, after hanging on for so long, Gordon's visage peers down from the apex of the cliff face.

"What're you doing there?" he asks, somewhat stupidly.

_Not much, just hanging around, quite literally. I'm having the time of my life._

Then, he realises your problem. Rather unhelpfully, he bursts out into laughter.

"What the hell were you thinking, rock climbing without a harness?" he chortles. "Actually, hazarding a guess, I'd say you weren't thinking at all."

You remain silent; try to keep a handle on your temper. Once again, hanging on by a thread.

"Hang on, I'll get you up."

He hauls you to safety, grunting his exertion out as he hoists you up using safety gear he's fed down to you.

"Whoever wrote _He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother,_ obviously never met you."

You'll take the insult if it means you get to safety.

"Diet, Alan," Gordon gasps, shoving you roughly off him after you unceremoniously collapsed onto him. "You really need to go on a diet. Don't eat a lot at lunch."

You race him back to the villa, ready to stuff your face with food.

_Sometimes_, you muse, _holding on long enough until you're found is the only thing you can do._


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: ****The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this. This is for enjoyment (and I use that term loosely) purposes only.**

**AN: This one came out a little bit more abstract than I intended. Not too sure if it works when it's read as is, so any feedback for this would be nice. **

Hanging On By a Thread

_The biggest challenge a Tracy faces is simply holding on long enough to be found_

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

That's it, just keep on breathing.

You open your eyes, stare into black.

_Where am I?_

A flash of light as a response. A high pitched keening sound. It sounds like a sob, or maybe a small child laughing. Something similar to the sound the Mole would make as it drills its way into earth. A distorted voice grumbling on. You can't quite make out what he's saying.

For some reason, you imagine clowns, the circus, irrelevant things from your childhood. The masks the clowns wear creeps you out. You've never really liked clowns, despite your drawings of them when you were younger. You can hear music from the Big Top, distorted, off-key, as though you're hearing it with your head underwater.

_Sending in the effing clowns? Am I going insane?_

It's been like this for the past eternity, trapped within your own mind. You can't remember a time before this.

A trembling sensation. You feel the ground get pulled out from under your feet and you fall, fall into the vacuum below. You spin, rotate around on an axis that hasn't been defined, spin so fast you feel woozy and black out. Gravity doesn't pull you upright, but it pulls you down.

And you stop, just as abruptly as you started. Stop in a haze of pain, a kaleidoscope of colour. You push through; fight the excruciating nerve impulses firing through your body and you rise to your feet. That's what a Tracy does. One foot in front of the other, you sprint around the dark recess of your mind, trying to find a way out.

But it gets worse. You jack-knife, legs crumpling and folding from underneath you, leaving you sprawled on the ground, arms and legs splayed out at awkward angles.

You can't move.

Can't feel anything below your hips.

Can't wiggle your toes, can't flex your knees.

The clowns have followed you, eerie smiles mocking you as they approach and loom over you. You think you see the glint of silver, a blade slicing through the air.

_It's official. I think I've gone insane. _

You wince, wait for the blade to come into contact with your skin, wait for the inevitable, but it never comes. Instead, you see a hand. Palm side up, open, wanting you to accept it. You grab onto it the same way a toddler would grab onto their bottle.

You use the contact to ground yourself. You use it to regain your sanity. You use it to hang onto your sanity by a thread, and wait for someone, most likely Scott, to save you from your hell.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: ****The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this. This is for enjoyment (and I use that term loosely) purposes only.**

Hanging On By a Thread

_The biggest challenge a Tracy faces is simply holding on long enough to be found_

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

That's it, just keep on breathing.

Or, rather, let the machine breathe for you, the steady hiss of the ventilator a metronome with the way your chest rises and falls.

It hurts to move.

It hurts to think.

You remember the moments leading up to this, the catastrophe that ruined it all. You relive the magnitude of the hydrofoil crash, experience the way you were flung through the air like a rag doll, plummeting back into the ocean like a stone. With that force, you know that it's improbable, impossible, for anyone else to have survived.

You think of Carl, your best mate, your partner-in-WASP-crime, cold eyes dead, staring into a future he wouldn't live to see. You think of the way his frigorific hand ghosted across your face as your bodies crossed in the aftermath of the crash. How that crossing had sent a shiver up your spine. How it made you lucky to have survived the initial shock wave. You think of Steffie, built short and stocky, teaching you about emotions you had never felt before then, guiding you through the metamorphosis from a boy to a man.

_Built like a tank_, you'd tease her, and she would respond by hefting you up and tossing you into the nearest watery surface. As you surfaced, she would shoot you a smile that dazzled you, making your heart flip against your ribcage.

It hits you that you'll never see that smile again.

And that hurts the most.

It hurts to feel.

So you don't. You take a leaf out from your father's book and you close off emotion.

You know you're not conscious, everything's too hazy, but you know you're alive. Your skin is receptive to the person grasping your hand. With callouses and rough skin you detect, you suspect it's your father. It's conclusive proof that you haven't bought the farm yet.

"It's okay, Gordon," the voice tells you. "It'll be okay. You just get through this, and the rest will work itself out."

And like the hopeless fool you are, you believe him.

You need that incentive to keep you alive, hanging onto life by a thread.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: ****The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this. This is for enjoyment (and I use that term loosely) purposes only.**

Hanging On By a Thread

_The biggest challenge a Tracy faces is simply holding on long enough to be found_

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

That's it, just keep on breathing.

Well, really, at a few days old, your breathing's riddled with snuffles. A side effect of being one month premature – your lungs haven't had a chance to develop and mature, so you've had a tube inserted into you to help you breathe by yourself.

The halogen lamps in your warmed incubator accentuate how frail and fragile you look, shining through translucent pale skin to display royal blue veins. Your eyelids have been taped closed so that your eyes aren't damaged by excessively bright lights.

There's a noise, and then there's contact. Gentle hands wrap around you and cradle you to a chest. You feel safe and secure, calm and grounded.

Her voice is familiar to you, but you haven't the foggiest idea about what she's saying. It sounds like a garbled mess, but it doesn't matter.

Her hand trails across the light fuzz of your hair, a feather breezing in the wind, presses a kiss to your forehead. Surprised at the pressure you weren't expecting, you let out a strangled whimper.

She whispers reassurances to get you to quiet down. Content at being in close proximity to your mother, you snuggle into her warmth. From beside her, you hear another less familiar – but only slightly less – familiar voice.

Your father. He, somehow, has managed to sneak your big brother in here, even though your brother's not supposed to be in NICU. You can feel yourself being shifted from your mother to the person you know to be your father.

Only it's not your father that's holding you. Well, not entirely. The hands you feel are small, tiny in comparison to your mother. Relying on instinct, you realise that your big brother's holding you, with the help of your father. You can feel the 'big brother radar' honing in on you and it makes you feel even safer.

Wanted.

Loved, even.

Scott's hand slides easily over yours and you grasp onto one of his fingers. You forge a connection with him, or he forges one with you, one based in love, care, consideration and respect.

Together, you hang onto each other. You hang onto your comrade, your protector, your big brother, by a finger.

You hang onto him by a thread.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: ****The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this. This is for enjoyment (and I use that term loosely) purposes only.**

**AN: Not a perspective I've written in before, so I hope you guys like it. A bit of an extension from _These Days Are Gone, _but you don't need to read that to understand this. However, if you want to... go for it. **

Hanging On By a Thread

_The biggest challenge a Tracy faces is simply holding on long enough to be found_

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

That's it, just keep on breathing.

But it's not as easy as it was before. Snow crushes down on your chest, a lead blanket shrouding you and your eldest son.

"Scott," you gasp, breath hitching. "Scotty, come to Mommy."

There's no answer. You can't hear his voice, nor can you sense his body weight shifting as he worms his way towards you.

"Scotty?" you almost shriek, anxiety for your son's well-being reaching saturation point. "Scotty, answer me!"

"I'm here, Mom," he replies, rubbing at your limbs to warm you up. You clumsily place a hand on his cheek, trace the contours of his face, reassure yourself that it really is Scott and not just a hallucination.

"It'll be alright, Mom," he tells you with nine year old certainty, nine year old sincerity. "Dad'll come for us, I know he will. Just hold on."

But you can't. You know you can't. You know exactly what's happening to you, you're perfectly aware of it, but you don't want Scott to know that you know. You want to be able to spare him that pain. You can feel the internal bleeding you've suffered in the avalanche take its toll on your body. You think you've got, what, five minutes left at best?

_Not even._

Not enough time. Nowhere near enough time to formulate farewells.

As much as you try and fight it, it's futile. Your vision begins to blur. You aren't sure if it's because you're dying or because tears are forming.

"Scott," you say, openly sobbing, unashamedly letting the tears fall. "Look at me."

You swivel his unwilling head until his eyes meet yours. Understanding, and the light seems to go out from his eyes. A little part inside of him curls up and dies, never to be seen again.

You've held on, held on by a thread, but you know the thread's about to break. You drink in your son's face, commit him to memory and use your last breath to utter one last statement.

"Scott, I'm sorry."


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: ****The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this. This is for enjoyment (and I use that term loosely) purposes only. **

**AN: Set somewhere in the little timeline I've set up. Brief references to OCs, but not so that it can't be read if you haven't followed the series. I think.**

Hanging On By a Thread

_The biggest challenge a Tracy faces is simply holding on long enough to be found_

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

That's it, just keep on breathing.

_Just keep on bleeding, more like._

It's true. You're lying on the ground, bleeding. Pretty badly, too. The gunshot wound got you straight in an artery. You're smart enough to know that arterial wounds are bad.

The bullet missed your heart – the shot went bad, or the aim was bad – and for that, you're grateful. It means you're still alive, still in with a chance of being found. A good few inches too high, but it caught your Carotid artery.

The artery on the left of your neck and you clamp your hand down over the wound to try and staunch the flow, try to stop the blood from waterfalling from you at a phenomenal rate.

_No point in dying before you've given the others a chance to save you._

Your head lolls downwards, inflicting a head rush on your injured body as blood flows freely from you. You let your thoughts trail, contemplate how you landed up like this, a fallen angel.

_Should have been at Mobile Control, not out here, in the wilderness. Should have stuck to tried, tested and true positions within International Rescue instead of screwing around with the system._

And it's true. To stop you and your brothers from getting too comfortable with your roles within the organisation, your father had shaken things up a bit, "just to make sure you can function and perform just as well and effectively in a role you aren't too familiar with."

With Alan behind Mobile Control, and Virgil operating the Firefly, you were left to search and save your own designated area. You were left vulnerable to attack.

You don't know who shot you, and you don't know why. All you know is that it hurts like a bitch. Briefly, you wonder if it would be less painful for you to close your eyes and slip into oblivion, never to return.

_Don't you dare do that, Tracy! You've got too much to live for._

And it's true. You've recently tied the knot and shackled yourself to one person for life. Your wife and you have a baby on the way. There's too much for you to do, and you aren't prepared to leave jobs unfinished. It's not your time.

So you struggle to keep those cobalt blue eyes of yours open, struggle to keep track of everything that's important to you. You think of your family, know deep down that your brothers will not give up until they find you, dead or alive.

_Wait, definitely alive._

And with that, your thoughts turn to your progeny. There's a chasm of information about your unborn child that you don't know. You don't know the sex of the baby. You suspect you may be lucky enough to have been the first Tracy in four generations to have fathered a little girl, but the chances are that you'll end up with a son. Not that you'd care; you'll still love the child regardless of the gender. You wonder who the baby will take after; your wife or yourself. You wonder what he or she will grow up to be.

It is this thought that compels you not to die. The prospect of a future lets you hang on, by a slender thread, to the present.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: ****The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this. This is for enjoyment (and I use that term loosely) purposes only.**

Hanging On By a Thread

_The biggest challenge a Tracy faces is simply holding on long enough to be found._

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

That's it, just keep on breathing.

Just one more breath. Just until he gets here. From your left, Gordon wipes some drool from your mouth. It seems like yesterday that you were doing this for him as a baby instead of him doing it to you.

The stroke caused irreversible damage to so many parts of your brain. It's hard for you to have any sort of motor control. Your time is running out; the major stroke led to miniature strokes that occurred more frequently. Not that you're complaining; you've had a good life, a good run, and maybe, just maybe, it's time to end on a high note.

From your right, Scott sniffs. Your eyes dart towards him and your heart breaks at the sight of your sixty year old son. It's the first time in Scott's adult life that you've seen him cry. Beside him, Virgil hands him the tissue box.

Back in the day, this is something that the boys would have teased each other over. But your boys are more mature now, more world wisely, and dare you think it, more sensitive and in touch with their emotions. You conclude that it's a side effect from their respective marriages. Not a bad thing, either, you realise.

"I'm okay," Scott offers you a watery smile. "I'm okay."

You and he both know he's not fooling anyone, but living a charade is infinitely more preferable to facing reality, if only for a brief respite from the harsh truth.

"Did I tell you Pip's been accepted into Yale? She got the acceptance message yesterday."

Your eyes darken as you try to remember who the hell Pip is. And then it hits you; Pip. Scott's second youngest granddaughter. The one that's Scott in feminine form.

Virgil reads the speculative gleam in your eye. "That's right, Dad," he continues. "She's taking after Scott in more than just physical appearance. Double degree in Aeronautical Engineering and Finance while also earning her pilot's licence on the side. We know; we're proud of her too."

In the silence, the door bursts open and John barrels in, as only a fifty-nine year old can.

"Dad!" he cries out, anguished at the sight of you. "I'm here. It's okay. We're all here."

Eyes guarded, you regard him. You wonder if he's forgotten about… what's-his-name… Alan.

"Alan's gone," Gordon prompts, gently, softly. "He's with Mom now."

Oh, yes, you remember now. A space mission gone wrong resulted in Thunderbird Three being lost in the universe. It was likely that Alan had been killed by the radiation or vaporised by a flare of some sort. It was the final nail in the coffin that closed International Rescue down for good. Alan was forty when it happened.

Your sons assemble around you. You feel something relax deep inside your chest.

You've held on long enough; it's time to let go. You let the image of your sons gathered in front of you burn its way into your retinas.

They are the last thing you see as your eyes close for the last time.


End file.
